Face Facts

I had something I was going to say, but I lost it somewhere between the park and my laptop. Alexis and I stopped along our commute home because I wanted to take a little walk with her and maybe get a few photos. She was in NO MOOD for my shenanigans and reverted back to her old ways of looking everywhere but at me. She turned her her back to me, she stared at the ground, she ignored me, she used her mind to send me telepathic messages that probably rhymed with "Duck Foo."

I managed to sneak in a few OK photos, but then gave up and we walked back towards the car. Because she is four, as she walked down the path, she suddenly blurted out, "Your booty stinks!"

I replied, "Duty. Duty. Duty. Duuuuuty." We have very mature conversations. Yes, we do.

She started howling with laughter because there is no word in the English language quite as funny as "Duty." I don't know why. I just know that it is.

As she cackled, I snapped this photo:

AND NOW I HAVE NO WORDS.

Wait, yes I do.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE BABY FACE?

She had it last year at this time. WHERE DID IT GO?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Seeing Red

If I blink twice, it will have been a year since we moved into this house. In the eleven months since we tripled the amount of space we had to live in, we've tried to make a little headway in cleaning up the disaster zone that came with buying a foreclosure. First we focused on the kajillion plumbing issues, then some of the landscaping, and then we set our sights on the painting. OH, THE PAINTING.

The painting is still very, very, very far from done and likely will stay that way until the weather turns miserable and cold again. We did, however, manage to kick some ass in the room that mattered most--the master bedroom. In case you weren't around when we moved or you have forgotten, the master bedroom was half painted in dried cow blood when we moved in.

I wish I were kidding. I'm not.

It's a huuuuuge room and the painting was so horribly randomly awful, I couldn't even be in there for five minutes without getting a serious case of The Rages.

It took three gallons of paint to cover the walls and since there was tons of that awful red splattered on the ceiling, we had to paint that, too. That took another two gallons. It wasn't the worst painting task we've taken on in this house, but that's probably mostly because it was easily the most rewarding. See? MUCH BETTER.

The walls are off-white while the ceiling and all of the accessories are robins egg blue. I have a plan that I need to execute for getting some art on those walls, but that's not what is currently bothering me in that room. What's currently bothering me in there is that there is a spot, next to the TV, where the soothing whitish color has chipped off, revealing the anger-inducing red beneath.

It. drives. me. batty.

I notice it daily, but never at a time when I could go dig up a can of paint to fix the spot. It'll take ten minutes, tops, but I have to actually start in order to get it done. In fact, I would go fix it right this second, but Alexis is sleeping in that very bed, and you are out of your mind if you think I'm willing to risk waking her up in order to put an end to the madness that is that red spot.

It taunts me. It mocks me. It tortures me. I'd still rather look at it than deal with a cranky 4-year old.

Earlier I was helping Alexis with the nightly tooth-brushing/pajama finding/book reading project when I noticed Ali acting crazy in the bedroom. She was leaping into the air and attacking the wall. Nay, she was attacking the spot.

With a chuckle, I listened as Mr. Husband told me that she tries to attack that spot all the time. It's a little too high for her to reach, but apparently she leaps into the air and smacks at it wildly before crashing back to the floor. I picked her up to show her it wasn't anything worth having a fit over, and she went BALLISTIC.

People, she had a full on temper tantrum as she tried to murder that one inch chunk of awful red paint.

Somebody please invent a paintbrush a cat can use. Ali spends her days in that room and it sure would be handy if she would touch it up for me.

Monday Can Suck It

Lately Monday has been rearing her ugly head and smacking me around. Bad. That's the only explanation I have for how it came to be that two Mondays in a row, every set of keys we own ended up in Mr. Husband's car. I stood in the kitchen when I should have been starting the car, fully realizing that it would take him two hours to get a car key to me, as a short person stood staring at me all sorts of confused. With the knowledge that it wasn't worth him taking the time to bail me out, I decided to work from home.

With the Demon Child there.

While Alexis is generally a good kid, she spent the weekend in quite the funk. Her mouth often writes checks her butt can't cash, and she frequently finds herself on the receiving end of my fury because of it. This weekend she was especially bad. So bad that not only did I revoke all of her television privileges for the rest of her life, but I also went for the jugular. I don't even remember what exactly she said on Saturday afternoon that sent me straight over the edge, I just know that she wasn't even slightly shocked when I silently walked over to her beloved dollhouse and moved it to the top of the fridge, far out of her reach.

Taking away her dollhouse is like taking away her oxygen. It took me a long time to figure out that was the only thing that would really make her feel pain, so I save it for the worst of her offenses. It works. Well.

On Sunday I still hadn't forgotten that I was disappointed in her behavior, so she didn't get her dollhouse back. Tears were shed, promises were made, and I told her she had to be good the rest of the day and I would think about letting her have it back.

And then Monday morning rolled around and the Demon Child needed entertainment while I churned out some serious work. With a shower of threats and guarantees that one false move would land her dollhouse back in jail, I gave it to her.

She nearly passed out from The Happy.

And then the Demon Child proceeded to have her best behavior day I can recall. EVER. She quietly played with her dollhouse for hours. She cheerfully splashed in her pool for several more hours. She silently sat at her craft table and colored picture after picture after picture. Never once did I have to tell her to alter her behavior, not even to tell her to leave the cat alone, which I could have sworn was a phrase that automatically falls out of my mouth every quarter hour. I mean, I thought I had set a timer, but then there she was, acting like an absolute angel and I didn't sound like a tape recorder AT ALL.

She used her manners. She was pleasant. She was my bestest bud ever.

I spent the evening showering her with praise because ZOMG! I want to keep that version of Alexis forever and ever and ever! AND EVER!

Monday may try to beat me down, but a well-behaved short person can make the day better than perfect.